Sometimes the Hero Gets the Guy
by isolde13
Summary: AU in which the guys are not brothers and Dean hustles more than pool
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: This A/U was written for three reasons.

1. The never-ending need to see more HurtDean.

2. Because no matter how hard I try, Wincest squicks me. I have a brother of my own and just the thought of...no, see, I can't even go there. Therefore, they are not brothers in this one.

3. Because we all know that Dean wasn't really hustling _pool_ in the beginning of _Bugs_.

There should be a part two to this soon...

Sometimes the Hero Gets the Guy

Sam sat in the car, hunching his tall, lanky frame down as best he could to avoid being seen by the thing he was following. He was hoping that even if he was spotted, the creature would simply mistake him for another guy cruising the streets looking for a good time.

He watched in silence as the thing began to move its stolen car, letting it crawl along the street as it searched the night intently.

Sam gave his own car a bit of gas and followed at what he knew to be a safe distance.

There. It was stopping again, looking pointedly at the young men on the sidewalk. Sam couldn't help but be amazed at how many of them were out here. Just three days ago, one of them had been brutalized and murdered; bringing the grand total of mysterious, violent deaths of prostitutes in the city to six, and yet these men and women, boys and girls really, were still out here, braving the obvious danger for a few bucks.

Sam knew that he shouldn't try to understand it. This was their world and he was as much of a stranger to it as they were to his. But he still couldn't help feeling frustrated as he saw them walking and posturing on the sidewalks, essentially offering up their lives, and for what?

A sudden movement from the thing in the car interrupted Sam's thoughts. It was beckoning someone over. Sam sat up a little straighter and watched as a young man began to approach the vehicle.

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward to get a better glimpse of the newly chosen victim. Once he did, he couldn't help but wonder why the thing would choose him over all the others. The guy seemed so ordinary; brown hair, average height, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, he sported a short, modern haircut that a thousand other men had. Nothing about him seemed to say, "Hey, look at me. Pick me."

But then the young man reached the driver's side of the car and leaned down toward the open window. The street-lamps illuminated his profile, bathing him in their soft, other-worldly glow and Sam gasped.

The guy. Was. Beautiful.

Sam didn't think they made them like this. All the hustlers he'd ever seen either looked completely used up or like crack addicts, but this guy...

With an almost physical effort, Sam pushed away the distracting thoughts and concentrated on the fact that potential victim number seven was now getting into the car and that said car was pulling away from the curb.

He shifted his own car into drive and followed, driving for a good thirty minutes before the car in front of him finally arrived at its destination; a seedy motel right on the outskirts of town.

The perfect place, he thought, for a little rending, a little raping and a whole lot of cannibalism.

He watched and waited as the thing got out of the car, paid for the room and then escorted his guest into it.

Sam got out of the car quietly, taking with him the gun loaded with silver bullets and his knife with the silver blade.

He was only a few yards away from the motel room when he felt a strong arm wrap around his neck and yank him back. Instead of fighting to keep his balance, he let himself go with the momentum. His attacker clearly wasn't expecting that and they fell back too. Sam quickly got his legs around it, flipping them both, and came face to face with the shape-shifter.

In its true form.

And it was uglier than sin.

He grappled with it, both of them rolling over and over in the motel's dirt parking lot as they each tried to get the advantage. They came to a stop with Sam pinned to the ground and the shape-shifter on top of him. Before Sam could try to buck it off, it wrapped its hands around his throat and pressed, closing off his airway. Sam didn't try to pull its hands away, in fact he didn't try to fight back in any way. Instead he calmly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the knife. He then stuck it into the creature's mid-section, right under its ribs. Right into its heart.

The creature turned completely boneless and released its grip. Sam pushed its body off of his own and brought a hand to his throat, drinking in the delicious night air until he felt steady again.

Two of them. There had been two. He had been ambushed because he'd been stupid; not thinking, not careful enough. If Dad were here, he'd never hear the end of it.

For a brief moment that thought and the loneliness that it inspired stopped him, stealing the breath from him all over again.

But his dad wasn't here and he had things to do; another shape-shifter to fight. A life to save. It was that last thought that finally got him moving again. He tucked the knife back into his pocket, pushed himself up and ran for the motel room.

He could only hope that he hadn't lost too much time messing around with that second one; that he wasn't too late.

He ran to the door and yanked it open, taking only a moment to thank all the possible deities that it wasn't locked. Then he all but threw himself into the room, taking everything in even as he moved. The possible exits, the possible weapons for the shape-shifter to use..the fact that it was struggling furiously with its intended victim on the double bed...

Sam shouted, hoping to get the thing's attention focused on him instead of the man underneath it. His impromptu plan worked better than he could have hoped. The shifter pulled away from the man and literally threw itself at Sam, changing from mild-mannered businessman to yellow-eyed demon with gnashing teeth in mid-air. Sam didn't give himself time to think. Acting solely on instinct, he pulled out the gun and blasted the thing; once in the head, and once in the heart.

He watched it for a moment to make sure it was dead. It was only when he saw it begin to lose the businessman skin that he turned towards the man on the bed.

Except that he wasn't on the bed any longer. He had managed to roll himself off of it and was now on his hands and knees on the floor, panting harshly with his head bowed, his body shaking ever-so-slightly.

When Sam crouched down in front of him, his head shot up quickly and Sam was surprised to see that there was no immediate fear in the man's eyes; not of him anyway.

Sam did a quick once-over, trying to determine how bad the man's injuries were without actually touching him. It was one of the many lessons his father had taught him - people that you've just saved from a horrible death don't like to be touched right away. From what little he could see, and what he knew of this particular brand of shape-shifter, he figured there were contusions, scratches, and bites. And maybe a concussion judging by the amount of blood flowing down his face and the dilation of his pupils.

Preliminary diagnosis complete, he softly asked, "Hey, you ok?" He knew it was a stupid question, but he could never think of anything better.

But the man didn't seem to notice or care how stupid the question was. He looked at Sam, then turned his head to quickly glance back at the dead thing on the floor behind him. "I don't...what is...I..."

The man's words wouldn't have made sense to anyone else, but Sam understood them easily. He'd seen the reaction too many times from too many different people to be confused by it. Moving slowly, he gently placed his hand on the man's shoulder, drawing his attention away from the floor.

"It's dead. It can't hurt you anymore. You're safe now."

If Sam's words made any impression on the man at all, he didn't show it. He just sat there, unmoving, his eyes huge and unblinking and staring at Sam.

Sam was close enough to him that he could see that those eyes were hazel. He was close enough that he could see the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of the man's nose.

God, even with the blood smearing his face, even with the shell-shocked look in his eyes, the man was beautiful.

And Sam felt like a complete asshole for even thinking it. The poor guy had just been assaulted, was obviously in some kind of shock, and here he was salivating over him. Sam roused himself and stood. It was time to start thinking like the hunter that he was, not some teenager with a crush.

"Look, I gotta go," he said quickly and more harshly than he had intended. "Stay here and I'll call 911 as soon as I get in my car, ok?"

And then the strangest thing happened. The man blinked a few times and his eyes cleared, losing the haunted look. With a grunt of pain, he pushed himself back and into a sitting position and looked up at Sam. "You're leaving?" he asked, his voice incredulous.

To say that Sam was surprised at the change he had just witnessed was an understatement. Truth is, he had never seen anyone pull themselves together that fast. Ever. It was...impressive. "I fired shots," he explained. "Shots equal cops and cops and I...we don't really get along."

The man frowned, then swallowed hard against pain as he prepared to talk. "Look, I hear you, but..." He glanced back, then grimaced and looked away quickly. "You can't just leave me here."

"I can't stick around."

"Well...you could take me with you."

Sam looked down at the earnest face and saw that the guy was completely serious. "What? No, I can't..."

With a sarcastic edge to his voice, the man said, "I don't mean for the rest of your life. You can drop me off somewhere. Just don't leave me here with that thing."

Sam quickly debated. He had to get out of here, he could already hear the sirens, even if only in his head. But they would be real soon enough. And he really couldn't afford to spend a few days of quality time with the police while they figured out that _he_ wasn't one of the bad guys.

He was about to very gently but firmly say that he 'really had to go but that everything would be just fine', when the guy looked at him with those big, hazel eyes of his and quietly said, "Please?"

And instead of acting like the seasoned hunter that he was supposed to be, Sam melted and turned into the guy with a teenage crush. He sighed. "All right. But we gotta go. Now," he said as he slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans and held out his hand.

The man took it and they slowly made their way out of the motel room and into Sam's car. At every step of the way, Sam was sure they were going to get busted, especially once he heard actual sirens in the distance, but there was no help for it. The other man was hurt, could barely move really, and they had to go at a snail's pace.

Once they were both safely inside the car however, it was a completely different story. Sam floored it and pealed out of the parking lot, stirrup up a cloud of dirt next to the rapidly decomposing body of the shape-shifter.

Only after he'd driven what he felt was a safe distance from the newly minted crime scene, did Sam stop the car to check on his passenger. "Hold still," he said as he leaned over and carefully placed a hand on the back of the guy's head.

"What are you doing?" the man asked nervously, his body tensing.

"Just checking to see how badly you're hurt," Sam replied absently as next he lightly ran his fingers over the man's abdomen.

"Oh," the man said, and although he sounded dubious, his body visibly relaxed.

Sam checked his arms and legs before finally leaning back. "You'll live, but you're going to need a hospital. Some of those cuts are deep and your wrist is probably fractured. Not to mention the bruised ribs and the possible concussion."

The man stared at him before giving his head a quick, pained shake. "No hospitals. Too expensive. Too many questions."

"You need a doctor," Sam insisted.

"I know a place. A clinic. It's not far and they don't hassle you."

Sam ceded, mostly in the interest of time. "Ok. Where?"

The man gave him quick directions and Sam once again started the car and drove. He was so intent on finding his way around the strange, dark city that he was startled when his passenger broke the silence by speaking. "You know...you just saved my life back there and I don't even know your name."

Sam smiled and glanced over. "It's Sam."

"I'm Dean."

Sam repeated the name softly; unconsciously tasting it as he acknowledged it.

_So the beautiful man was named Dean..._

"So that's the thing that's been killing people?"

"Yeah. That was it."

"You mind telling me what the hell it was?"

Sam hesitated. He hated this part, never knowing if he was going to be believed, if he was going to be called crazy, if the person that he had just helped was going to look at _him _as the enemy. "The truth?"

"Would be nice, dude."

"It was a rakshasa. They're rare, but violent."

"A what?"

"They're originally from India. Essentially, a shape-shifting demon."

"So this rickshaw thing...what's it doing here? Vacationing?"

Sam laughed, feeling more relieved than he would have thought at being believed by this man. "Rakshasa," he corrected automatically. "And yeah...something like that."

"How did you know it would be there? How did you know how to kill it?"

He hesitated again. For some reason he didn't want to lie, but to tell the truth would take hours. He finally settled for saying, "It's ummm...it's kind of what I do."

"You kill rakshasas?"

"Among other things."

"Like what things?"

"Whatever goes bump in the night."

"Whatever goes..." Dean let the sentence die, letting out a small bark of a laugh and shaking his head. Seconds later, he really began to laugh. Sam was taken aback until he realized what was happening. He had seen the phenomenon hundreds of times and he knew its stages well. Too well.

It always started with normal-sounding laughter. Then after a while, the laughter would begin to sound a little hysterical. And before you knew it...

Tears.

Which was precisely the stage where Dean was right now. With his painful, heart-rending sobs echoing throughout the interior of the car. They were the sobs of someone whose adrenaline had just worn off and who was coming face to face with the fact that they had almost died.

Sam quickly pulled the car over and turned to him. "Hey, it's ok."

But Dean shook his head and covered his face with his right hand while the other hand, the one with the injured wrist, stayed in his lap. Sam's heart broke at the sight, and he found himself fighting the urge to grasp that hand and bring it to his lips. He finally settled for placing his own hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing lightly.

Eventually, the sobs and tears subsided into muffled sniffles. And soon after, Dean lifted his head and hastily wiped at his eyes. "Oh man," he said with an embarrassed laugh. "I haven't cried like that since I was five. I didn't think I even knew how to any more."

Sam gave him what he hoped was a comforting smile.

A small sniffle. "You must think I'm a total wuss, huh?"

"Not at all. Your reaction is pretty normal. For what you've just been through."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Dean forced a weak smile onto his face. "So you don't think I'm a total girl?"

_As if anyone could mistake you for a girl... _

Sam clamped down on that thought before it could make its way out of his mouth. "No, man."

Dean leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, his smile now replaced by a frown that indicated he was fighting pain.

Sam looked away from him and to the road, aware that Dean needed medical attention, and soon. "We'd better go."

Dean didn't answer, didn't even nod, and somehow that worried Sam more than anything else.

By the time they got to the clinic, Dean was nauseous and sweating profusely, yet shaking with cold. Sam knew he was going into shock; probably from a combination of the blood loss and the trauma.

He all but carried him out of the car and into the clinic where he finally left him with a very concerned looking nurse.

Sam looked down at his hands, left bloody from where he had touched Dean, and settled himself down to wait.

Almost two hours later, the door to the back opened, and Dean wandered out, looking dazed and tired. Now that the blood had been cleaned away from his face, Sam could easily see the split lip and the bruised cheek, the bruise under the eye and the cut under his chin. In his hand he held what Sam could only assume were prescriptions, but it was obvious by the slight glaze in his eyes that they had already given him something for the pain. He stood up and walked over to him, placing a steadying hand on his arm to get his attention.

Dean stared at him, as if trying to determine whether or not he was real. "You're still here?"

"Well, yeah. I wasn't going to leave you here by yourself."

Dean looked at the floor and muttered, "I didn't know."

He looked and sounded like a lost, little boy and Sam found himself wanting to hug him and never let go.

A little dismayed that he was back to being a teenager with a crush, he said, "Come on, let's get out of here, huh?"

When Dean made a move to pay at the front desk, Sam quickly pulled out his own wallet and took care of the bill.

Dean made a noise of protest, but Sam waved it away, telling him not to worry about it.

"So, where do you live?" Sam asked once they were back at the car.

"You're taking me home, too?"

"You didn't think I was gonna let you walk, did you?"

Sam had never seen anyone look as grateful as Dean did when he got back into the car. And once, again...teenager with a crush. Which was strange, because Sam had never _had_ a teenage crush. He wasn't even sure if this is what it felt like.

Dean's place turned out to be a nice surprise. Although it wasn't in the best part of town, the building was well-maintained and the apartment itself was large and roomy. Dean obviously took some pride in it, keeping it clean and decorating it so that it was warm and inviting. Sam guessed that this was his sanctuary; maybe the only place he had where he could be safe and himself.

"Nice place," he said, and meant it.

Dean blushed and looked away shyly. "Thanks."

And for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Sam found himself wanting to throw his arms around the other man and hold him for all he was worth.

Which was actually a bit scary, because he wasn't one to get attached to people. He had learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago. People like him were not meant to get close to others, to have relationships, to fall in love.

"Come on, I'll help you into bed," he told Dean.

He let Dean lead them into the bedroom and sat down next to him on the bed. Then without being asked, and with an infinite amount of care, he helped removed the other man's shirt and jeans.

Dean was as pliant and silent as a doll throughout the whole thing, and Sam had to wonder what was going through his mind. He had already been thinking about staying here overnight, just to make sure that Dean was all right, but now this reaction convinced him that he should definitely stay.

When the torn and bloody clothes were on the floor, Sam reached over and turned off the bedside lamp, leaving only the moon's soft rays to illuminate the room. "Get some sleep. You need it," he said as he made to stand up.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, coming back to life at last.

"Don't worry, I'll be on the couch. If that's ok with you," he added hastily.

"Wait...don't go."

Sam sat back down quickly. "What's the matter?"

"It's just that...I haven't even thanked you for what you did tonight."

"Oh well..."

And suddenly whatever Sam was going to say was lost because Dean was leaning into him, touching his face with the hand that was intact. And before Sam could react, Dean's mouth was on his. And now Dean was kissing him, actually _kissing_ him with that pouty mouth of his and those soft lips and Sam was melting upward into heaven.

As the kiss began to deepen, Sam responded by cradling Dean's face in his hands, holding him still as he pushed forward with his mouth, his tongue. God, he hadn't realized just how much he'd wanted this...

He pushed forward again, intent on tasting every bit of this beautiful man, when he heard a small intake of breath come from Dean. Someone else might have mistaken it for desire. Sam knew that it meant pain.

He moved his head away, breaking the kiss abruptly and leaving them both breathless. "I can't do this."

Dean leaned in again. "Yes, you can." His voice was breathless and husky and it promised tangled sheets and salty skin. And it took every ounce of willpower that Sam possessed not to give in to that siren voice and fuck Dean into the mattress right then and there.

He put his hands on Dean's shoulders and gently but firmly moved him back. "No, Dean."

Dean's eyes finally lost the smoky look of sex and now he merely looked confused. Wounded. "I'm sorry," he said as he scooted away. "I thought...I thought I picked up..." He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "I'm not usually wrong about this. I'm sorry."

"No, Dean," Sam said quickly, feeling the need to reassure. "You didn't read anything wrong. I do want you. I mean, you're...you're gorgeous, ok? And you know that. It's just that...this isn't right. Not like this."

"Why not?"

"Because you've been through something horrible tonight and you're on some really good drugs and you're not thinking straight. You're vulnerable right now and I don't want to take advantage of that."

"But I want to. I want you."

Sam inwardly groaned. Sentences like that one would be his undoing. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to collect his thoughts, knowing that he had to make the other man understand. "Dean, what you're feeling right now, is very normal. You came face-to-face with your own mortality. You survived. And to reassure yourself of that, you're turning to the one thing that will most immediately make you feel most alive. Physical intimacy."

Dean frowned. "I am not...am I?"

Nodding sagely, Sam continued, "And the fact that you feel grateful to me isn't helping matters any."

Dean now looked a little mortified. "This happens to you all the time, doesn't it? You rescue people, and they basically throw themselves at you, don't they?"

Sam couldn't deny it, but he felt uncomfortable admitting to it, so he merely shrugged.

"Don't you ever give in to temptation?"

And there it was again, that flirty look in his eyes, the timbre of his voice lowered just a bit, the body language that suddenly read, _open for you, only you._

He touched Dean's cheek very gently. "I want you so badly that it hurts. But not like this." He paused. "With you it'll be special. It will be right. And it will be amazing and slow and it will be something that we'll both remember forever."

Dean smiled; a slow, lazy, happy smile and Sam knew that he had said the right thing. "That sounds really nice, Sam," he whispered.

"Good," he said with a smile of his own. "Now go to bed."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If I promise to go straight to sleep, will you stay here? Not on the couch? I promise I won't pull a Michael Jackson on you. And I won't hog the covers."

Sam laughed. "I'll stay."

And he did.

Dean fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow and Sam watched him for awhile, enjoying the look of innocence and peace that his face had in sleep. After a while, his own eyes began to close and he made himself comfortable and prepared for his own fall into dreamland.

As he lay in Dean's bed, lost somewhere in the twilight world between asleep and awake, he realized that he had spoken to Dean about them in a future tense.

And with that final, disconcerting thought, Sam fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: Keep in mind, this is a total AU. In this story, Sam is 21, Dean is about 23.

Sometimes the Hero Gets the Guy (Part 2)

Sam awoke, first to the sensation of a bed dipping down, and then to the feeling that someone, or something, was watching him. His reaction came to him as naturally as breathing. He sat up, muscles already tensing, head turning quickly so that he could find the potential threat and take it down.

What he saw, however, was not anything malicious, supernatural or otherwise. What he saw was a young man, sitting against the headboard, looking at him in surprise (and maybe just a hint of fear).

He let himself relax, feeling the adrenaline literally draining from his body as he did so. In that instant, he remembered everything that had happened the night before. The young man was named Dean. Dean had been with the shifter; except there had been two shifters and he'd had to kill them both. And he had brought Dean here after taking him to the clinic.

And then Dean had kissed him.

More than anything he remembered that kiss. He had a feeling that he would remember it for the rest of his life. And the funny thing was . . . it wasn't as if he'd never been kissed before. He had, probably more times than he could count. But this one had been . . .

He searched for the right words to describe it, knew he'd never find them. He finally settled for a picture in his mind of an ornate and rare key fitting perfectly into a lock.

Sam shook away the romantic thoughts which were so unlike him, found his voice and said good morning.

Dean smiled and said, "Hi," and Sam felt his heart jump as a thrill of adrenaline rushed through his body.

_How was it possible that anyone had a smile that nice? _

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said in the deep voice that Sam remembered from last night. "I was trying to be quiet."

"No, it's ok. It's probably time for me to get up anyway." Sam glanced around the room and guessed from the sunlight streaming in that it was early afternoon. "What time is it?"

"It's a little after noon."

Sam nodded vaguely before turning his full attention to Dean. "How do you feel?"

The reply was quick and snappy. "Like I was hit by a mack truck. Maybe two."

Sam smiled, but looked pointedly at Dean, making it clear that he expected a more detailed answer than that.

"Ok, so it was a whole fleet of them." He paused. "You know how you always feel worse on the second day after you get the shit beat out of you?"

Of course _he_ was familiar with it, but it surprised him that Dean would be. He tried to keep his face neutral and not let that surprise show, but Dean must have seen it anyway. "Not all monsters go bump in the night, Sam."

Sam raised his eyebrows. Dean's voice was so grave and somber that to reply in other way would be some kind of insult. "No, I guess they don't."

Neither said anything else for a very long while, with Dean choosing not to elaborate, and Sam not knowing how to even begin to explore the meaning of a statement like that. Eventually the silence grew uncomfortable and heavy and Sam cleared his throat and excused himself to the bathroom. He used the toilet, washed his face, and as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered what the hell was going on with him.

"This is not you," he whispered harshly to his reflection. "You do not hang around like some sort of mother hen, trying to make everything better for people. You get the job done and you move on. So do what you're supposed to do and stop acting like a horny twelve-year-old."

And with that, he took one last, hard look in the mirror and walked out.

He returned to the bedroom to find Dean in the same position where he'd left him, though now his head was tilted back against the headboard and his eyes were closed. The bruising, the obvious exhaustion, all painted the perfect picture of a man who'd been to hell and had survived to tell the tale.

Sam walked over sat down next to him on the bed. He watched as weary eyes opened and focused on him.

And then he made himself say what he should have said last night. "I should . . . ummm . . . I should get going."

He was half-expecting a tearful plea for him to stay, but Dean merely looked at him and said, "Ok."

Sam knew that this was his cue to go, but he couldn't help asking, "Is there anything I can do for you before I go? Anything I can get you?"

There was nothing wrong with being courteous and considerate before taking off, was there?

But Dean shook his head very slightly. "No, I'm fine, Sam."

"What about your prescriptions? I could get them filled for you. Before I leave."

Another shake of the head. "I'll take care of it later. Don't worry about it."

And suddenly Sam found himself feeling guilty for leaving; even though Dean kept insisting that he was fine and that he didn't need anything.

"It's just that I have . . . "

But Dean cut him off. "I know. Monsters to fight."

'And my mother's murderer to kill and my father to find,' he thought. He could have said these things, actually thought about saying them for a minute, but in the end he settled for letting Dean believe only what he needed to know.

"Yeah. I have monsters to fight."

And that was the end of that. He was about to stand up to truly go when Dean spoke his name.

He froze, then settled back down on the bed. "Yeah?"

"I can't even remember the last time that someone was nice to me without expecting something from me in return," Dean said slowly. He looked down and grabbed a hold of a blanket, rubbing it between his fingers, obviously uncomfortable. "I don't know how to thank you. I don't know what to say or what to do."

Sam laid a hand on Dean's arm, felt his heat. "All you have to do is say thank you."

"It's not enough," Dean said, shaking his head. "Not for everything you've done."

"Try it."

Dean finally lifted his head, looking into Sam's eyes with a gaze so intense it could have burned through glass. "Thank you," he said.

Sam returned the gaze, matching Dean's intensity so that there would be no doubt in his mind as to how serious he was. "You are very easy to be nice to."

Dean looked embarrassed and turned his attention back to the blanket, mumbling something that Sam didn't quite catch.

He watched the other man worry the blanket for a minute before he ventured, "Can I ask you something?"

Dean raised his head, a bitter smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You want to ask me what a nice guy like me is doing in a business like this." It was not a question.

"Something like that."

"You don't want to hear that story, dude. It's a real downer."

But Sam did. He wanted more than anything to find out why this man was wasting his life away by having sex with strangers for money. But somehow he knew better than to push. "I do, but not if you don't want to tell it."

Dean frowned, appearing to be considering it; the look on his face telling of a difficult internal struggle. The decision took so long that Sam figured Dean would tell him it was none of his business and that would be the end of that.

But Dean surprised him once again; something that he seemed to do with alarming frequency. "It's the same story you've heard a million times on Oprah," he began in an almost bored voice. "Kid's dad deserts him and his mom. Mom marries an asshole. Asshole likes to drink and touch the kid. Mom doesn't believe the kid. Kid decides to run away from home when he's barely sixteen, thinking he's going to make it big in the city. The kid doesn't, of course, so he has to find alternate means of feeding himself. End of sob story."

If Sam had ever felt like an asshole, now was it. Why had he asked him that in the first place? What had possessed him? "Dean, I'm . . . "

"Don't," Dean said sharply. "Just don't, ok? It's no big deal, really."

But it obviously was a big deal; how could it not be? Sam, at a loss as to what to say or do, watched as Dean just sat there, face set in angry concentration. But eventually Dean seemed to rally himself with an effort, even managing a smile.

"What about you?" he asked Sam.

"What about me?"

"What's your story?"

"Oh . . . I . . . "

"Come on Clark, you can tell me. I already know your secret identity. Besides . . . quid pro quo, right?"

So Sam told him what he had never shared with anybody else. He told him about being four years old and watching his house burn down with his mother slashed to death on the ceiling inside. He told him about his father's obsession to find the thing that killed her and how that had translated into a childhood where he was constantly on the move; where the things he learned from his father were not how to tie a tie and woo a girl, but how to shoot a gun and effectively disarm an assailant. And finally he told him how his father had disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth, five months ago when they had each gone on separate hunts, and how he'd been searching for him ever since.

When Sam finished, Dean sat staring at him, wide-eyed, a look of amazement on his face. "Wow," he said. "Makes me wonder which one of us is more fucked up."

Sam couldn't help but laugh at that, and the tension that had built up within him as he had told his story mysteriously disappeared. Dean started to laugh as well, but the aches in his body wouldn't let him, so he had to settle for snickering slightly.

For the first time in his entire life, Sam was not itching to get back to the hunt. He wanted to stay, wanted to talk more about Dean's childhood, wanted to talk more about his own. He wanted to just talk to this man, period.

And he wanted to see if that kiss last night had been just a fluke.

_But he couldn't._

No, he couldn't. He had things to do. He had a mission to complete, and he'd already stayed here for far too long.

He sighed and wearily stood up. "I have to go, Dean."

"I know you do, Sam."

Sam nodded, then held out his hand, shaking Dean's carefully so as not to jar him any further. He felt stupid doing it however, when what he wanted to do was to kiss the man goodbye. "Take care of yourself."

"You too, Sam. And thank you. For everything."

Sam acknowledged that last with another nod, then turned away. He was almost out the door when he stopped, realized what the hell he was doing, and turned around.

Sam had never once acted impulsively. He left that to his father, who had always been the one to jump headlong into situations - act first, think later. His own role had always been that of the level-headed one, the thinker, the planner. But his father wasn't here now, and maybe it was about time that his role changed a little.

"Actually," he said. "There is another way you can thank me."

Dean looked at him with open curiosity. "How's that?"

"Come with me. On the road."

Dean sat up a little, winced, then flopped back against the headboard. "What?"

"Just for a little while. I can bring you back whenever you want."

"Monster hunting?"

Dean's voice was incredulous, but Sam was suddenly far too invested in this idea to let it go. "Think of it as a road trip. You wouldn't be in any danger, I swear."

Dean just stared at him, expressionless, so Sam continued, despite the growing fear that he was babbling. "And I could really use the company. And of course there'd be no strings attached, and . . . "

"Come here for a second," Dean said, holding out his hand. Sam stepped forward, relieved that he'd been stopped before he made an even bigger fool of himself than he already had. He took hold of Dean's hand and allowed himself to be pulled back to the bed.

"I'd love to take a road trip."

A giddiness-inducing wave of relief flooded through Sam. "Really?" he asked.

Dean pulled him closer. "Really. But just so you know . . . there's nothing wrong with a few strings every once in a while." And then came the smile; the one that could make you crazy in the head and weak in the knees at the same time.

This time around it was Sam who initiated the kiss.

He was the one who closed the gap between them and gently brushed his lips against Dean's. Mindful of the fact that Dean was still hurting, he moved very slowly, very gently, turning everything into a whisper-soft caress.

And . . . _ah yes . . . _he had been right. This was no fluke. Kissing this man, being around this man, was like an ornate and rare key fitting perfectly into a lock. A lock that opens the door to a thousand different moon-swept nights and sun-drenched days.

They parted at last, and although this time their kiss was mostly chaste, both had trouble catching their breath.

After a moment, Dean placed his hand against Sam's chest, stroking it gently. "Honestly, I was wondering when you were gonna get up the balls to ask. The only thing is, I may not be up to traveling for a few days."

Sam smiled, then leaned in again for more revelations.

"I'll wait."


	3. Sometimes the Hero Almost Screws it Up

Author's notes: This is set in the "Sometimes the Hero Gets the Guy" universe. It isn't necessarily the third chapter in the story, although I do recommend reading it, otherwise one might be confused.

Sometimes the Hero Almost Screws it Up

Sam shifted in bed, and, still mostly asleep, reached out his arm. He was expecting to connect with a warm body; had been, in his sleepy state, looking forward to it actually. Instead all he felt were a mattress and blankets. He frowned, a little more awake now, and reached out farther, feeling across the mattress with his outstretched hand.

Strange. He really should have come across some portion of Dean's body by now; the bed was only a double for heaven's sake.

Now fully awake and a little frustrated, he sat up in bed and turned on the light on the night-stand.

Sure enough, he was alone in the bed. The frown that he'd been wearing since he had first started to wake deepened as he looked around the motel room for Dean. He called out his name tentatively.

But Dean was nowhere to be seen and if he _was_ here, he was not making himself heard.

Sam stood up and made for the bathroom, intending to look there, although he already knew that Dean wasn't in it. He could sense that he was the only person in the motel room; _had_ sensed it from the moment that he had woken up.

He checked the bathroom anyway, mostly in the interest of being thorough, knocking on the door even though there was no light spilling out from underneath. He opened the door, looked around, and was met with only empty, quiet space.

Feeling angry, confused and frightened all at once, he walked back out of the bathroom and opened the motel room's door. A quick glance around the parking lot told him that his car was NOT where he had parked it. That it was, in fact, not in the lot at all.

Sam stepped back inside and rubbed his hand viciously across his forehead. Why hadn't he insisted on getting Dean a cell phone? It was obvious that he had taken the car and left. But why? And to go where?

He deliberated trying to find him, but eventually discarded that thought. This was an unknown town and he would be on foot, whereas Dean had the car. He could look all night and not find him. Hell, he could look all night and not come anywhere close.

He decided that a better course of action would be to wait for a bit before trying to track him down. Dawn wasn't far away and it would be much easier to find him then. All of Dean's things were still in the room anyway, which in all probability meant that he intended to come back.

Feeling only slightly better once he had a plan, even if it was a rudimentary one, he sat back down on the bed and settled in to wait, mentally giving Dean two hours to turn up before he'd have to resort to hunting him down.

A little over an hour later, he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. He watched in stony silence as Dean, who was obviously taking great pains to be quiet, opened the door. "Sam, what are you doing up?" he asked in surprise when he realized that Sam was indeed up and awake.

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam asked. His slow, measured tones did nothing to hide how upset he was.

"What?"

Sam's voice grew even colder as he stood up. "I said, where the hell have you been?"

Dean's ever-present smile faltered. "I couldn't sleep, so I borrowed your car and went to the bar down the road. I didn't think you'd mind."

Sam, too angry to speak, just stood there, glaring.

"Look, if it's about my taking the car, I . . . "

"This isn't about the god damn car, Dean. How many times have I told you about going out alone?"

"Is that what this is about? Shit, Sam . . . "

But Sam didn't let him finish. He was far too full of righteous anger - always the most dangerous kind - to even stop and listen to what the other man was saying. "How many times, Dean? Huh? Did we not agree that it wasn't a good idea? And then you go sneaking off alone, at night, in a strange town! What the hell were you thinking?"

Dean took a couple of steps toward him, finally growing angry himself. "First of all, _we_ didn't agree to anything, _you_ agreed. And secondly, last time I checked, my mother was back in Fairfield, so get off my fucking case!"

"Dean, you know what's out there! Why would you go out without me? Why would you do something that stupid?" Sam asked, his voice growing louder and louder with every sentence.

"You are not my mother, you are not my warden and last time I checked, you did not own me! So just drop it!"

And with that, he pushed past Sam, heading toward the bed. Sam reached out and grasped his upper arm in a bruising grip, forcing him to a stop. "We are not done talking about this."

Dean glanced down at the hand on his arm before looking back up at Sam. "Really? Cause I think we are." He attempted to shake loose of Sam's grip, but if anything, Sam held on even tighter.

"Sam, let go of my arm," he said with forced calm.

Sam looked down and, realizing just how hard he was holding on to Dean, relaxed and dropped his grip. But not before he saw what Dean was holding in his other hand.

"What is that?" he asked, nodding toward the wad of bills that Dean was clutching.

Dean looked away, shaking his head. "It's nothing."

"Really? It doesn't look like nothing. Where did you get that money, Dean?"

Dean sighed wearily, moving away from Sam. "I was going to surprise you with it. We've been so low on money lately. I just wanted to help out."

And then it all clicked for Sam; Dean's sneaking out, going to the seedy bar in the middle of the night, the money . . . In his mind it all added up to one thing. And that thought was the one that pushed all his ugly, simmering emotions to the boiling point.

"How did you get that money, Dean? Did you fuck somebody for that money?"

Dean whirled around to face him."What!"

"This is unbelievable. You are unbelievable." Sam threw his hands up in the air, backing away from him in disgust.

Dean stared at him, mouth open, while hurt and shock warred for dominance on his face. "Is that where you think I got this?" he asked in a strangled whisper.

"Are you going to tell me something different?"

Sam waited, but Dean's only response was to continue to stare at him as if he had never seen him before.

"What am I supposed to think?" Sam continued when it became clear that Dean wasn't going to answer. "You go sneaking off late at night and you come back with a wad of money. What, that you became a stockbroker in the middle of the night?" He looked down and nodded at the money in Dean's hand. "That's a lot of money. How many did you have to take on to make that much?"

Dean's smile returned at last, but it was a twisted, ugly smile, a corroded version of itself. "Oh, I get it now. Once a whore, always a whore. That's all you'll ever see me as, isn't it?" He closed the distance between them, grabbed Sam's hand, and placed the money in it. His eyes shone wet in the room's eerie, yellow light as he said, "I fucked every single guy that was willing. And you can go to hell, Sam Winchester."

And without another word, he turned and walked away. He then made for the dresser drawer that held his clothes and began pulling them out calmly.

Sam, coming off the high of his fury after hearing Dean's words and seeing him break just a little, watched as Dean methodically emptied out the drawer of all its contents. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"What does it look like? I'm leaving."

And suddenly Sam's anger was gone, vanishing so quickly that not even its ghost remained. It was replaced almost immediately by the dual, sickening feelings of guilt and fear as they settled deep into his stomach. "What?"

"That was our deal, remember? I could leave whenever I wanted? Well, I want."

Dean picked up his duffel bag from off the floor and started placing his clothes into it with frightening efficiency.

"Dean, wait . . . "

Dean ignored him completely, seemingly hellbent on getting all his clothes to fit in the one bag.

Sam walked over to him and grabbed his arm gently. "Dean, stop. Please."

"Don't. Touch. Me."

The pure venom in Dean's voice caused Sam to back away, lifting his hand as if he'd been scalded by it.

Fine, so he wouldn't touch him. But he still had his voice and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to use it. "Dean, please don't leave. Please just listen to me for a minute," he pleaded.

And miraculously, Dean stopped packing, although he made no move to turn around.

"It's just that," Sam began hesitantly, "the thought of anybody else touching you . . . it drives me insane."

Sam stopped and waited. He waited for Dean to turn around, for him to smile that brilliant smile, to be told to "fuck off and die." Something . . . anything.

"Go on," Dean finally said.

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry," he said. Desperation colored his voice and he found that the more he talked, the faster he talked, until his words were practically tripping over each other in his eagerness to get them out. "It's just that . . . these past three months that we've been together? This is the longest relationship I've ever had. Before you . . . maybe three days tops. I'm so new at this. And I know I'm screwing up half the time, and I hate that I'm doing it. But, I swear, I don't think I'd be messing up this bad if I didn't care about you so much."

He clamped down on the flow of words abruptly, almost biting his tongue from the force of shutting his mouth. He was surprised to find that he was breathing rather heavily, almost as if he'd just gone toe to toe with some malignant force.

"Dean, say something . . . "

Dean heaved a huge, weary sigh and finally turned around. "Your jealousy shit is getting old, Sam."

Those few words might as well have been manna from heaven to Sam. Dean was talking to him. He was probably still upset, but at least he was talking. "I know. I know it is. But give me another chance. Or two or three maybe. I might need that many. But don't give up on me. Don't leave."

Dean crossed his arms in front of his chest and lifted one eyebrow.

Sam took that as another good sign and continued. "Dean, I honestly don't know what I'd do without you."

_And I think I might be falling in love with you . . . _

The thought, which had actually been swimming around in his mind for about a week now, flashed neon bright in his head, but he did not allow himself to voice it. Maybe soon he would, but not yet.

Sighing again, Dean let go of the duffel bag. It fell to the floor with a soft thump. "You're an ass."

Sam chanced a smile. Dean's voice held resigned affection. It was the voice of someone who is about to forgive.

"Yeah, I know." He held out his hand, waiting for Dean to take it and come to him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the prospect of make-up sex was already rearing its naughty head. When Dean made no move toward him, Sam began to wonder if had he misread him. He lowered his hand and waited.

"I didn't sleep with anybody for that money," Dean said matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"I didn't . . . "

"No, I got that part. But . . . what?"

"I hustled some guys at pool at the bar. That's where I got it."

Now it was Sam's turn to stare with his mouth open. "You're a pool hustler?"

Dean leaned casually against the dresser. "What can I say? I'm multi-talented."

Although he would never admit it, the relief at hearing where Dean had really gotten the money almost drove him to his knees. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?" Sam cried.

"Because you were so hellbent on doing your Ike Turner impersonation, I didn't think I should stop you."

Sam cringed. "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

"I'll let you know when the bruises heal, Ike."

Sam laughed and held out his hand again, putting on his best puppy-dog face. "Did I mention I'm an ass?"

This time, Dean reached over and took the proffered hand. He pulled Dean close to him and wrapped his arms around him, breathing him in, feeling his warmth. He kissed him deeply, running one hand down one jean-clad thigh while the other tightened in Dean's short hair.

It was almost hard to believe that just a few minutes ago Dean had been on the verge of walking out on him. The thought chilled him, and he vowed to himself never to let it get that far again.

They broke apart long enough for Sam to exhale, "Let's never do that again," before leaning forward to plant wet, little kisses along the base of Dean's throat.

Dean growled, low and animalistic and greedy and the sparks from that sound alone almost sent Sam over the edge.

Yeah, the fight had been bad, but my God, was the make-up sex going to be fantastic!

Sam had abandoned Dean's neck, and was now working on kissing every inch of Dean's collarbone when he felt strong hands on his chest pushing him away.

"Whoa, cowboy. Stop right there," Dean said breathlessly.

"What . . . what's the matter?"

"Much as I would like to continue this," Dean said as he looked Sam up and down, "there's still the problem of you thinking you're my mother and having a shit fit when I go out by myself."

Sam sighed miserably, trying to remind himself that he was an adult now and that pouting would be unseemly. "Dean, I don't want you going out alone because I worry about you."

"Yeah, well, there's a way we can fix that."

"What?"

"Train me."

"What? No, no way. Out of the question. We've talked about this."

"Yeah, and your answer sucks every time."

"Dean . . . "

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said as he leaned into Sam, looking up at him through his lashes. "I'm strong. I'm fast. I'm a quick learner. And I'll be able to help you. I'll finally be able to pull my own weight around here."

But Sam was standing firm, even though Dean looked about fifty kinds of delicious when he did that. "First of all, it's Sam. And second of all, what I do is dangerous and the thought of you getting hurt out there . . . well, I don't think I could handle it, Dean."

Dean backed away, the flirtatious look gone. "Oh, but it's ok for me?"

"Huh?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to watch you go out to face ghosties night after night while I'm stuck in some motel room like a. . . . a princess in an ivory tower?"

"You worry about _me_?"

"You are so fucking clueless sometimes, you know that? Of course I worry about you. Every time you leave me, I think that this is the time that your luck runs out."

"But I'm trained. Well trained."

"But you're not invincible, Sam."

"No, but . . . " He paused, not sure of what to say. He finally settled for a lame, "I had no idea you worried about me."

"The point is, I'm a grown man, Sam. I'm not a princess in a tower that you have to protect. Let me be your partner. Let me help you."

Sam dropped his head into his hands. This is what Dean had been pushing for ever since they'd met; his going on hunts. And this is what Sam had been trying so hard to avoid. The thought of all the dangers that Dean could face out there scared the shit out of him, but at the same time he knew he couldn't continue to treat Dean as if he were some defenseless child, or as he'd so aptly put it, "a princess in a tower." To do that would run the risk of losing him. No, Dean was a man, and he was going to have to start treating him like one.

Sam rubbed his hands over his face, wondering, not for the first time, why relationships had to be so hard.

He lifted his head and saw that Dean was looking at him intently.

"All right," Sam said. "We're going to have to make the make-up sex a quickie, then."

"Huh?"

"Well, we have to if we're going to start training early in the morning."

Dean's eyes widened, filling with excitement like a kid's at Christmas. "Sam . . . "

"I think we'll start with basic self-defense. Have you ever heard of Krav Maga?"


End file.
